LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2158, 25 January 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MYSTEEY OF LORD BRACKENBURY: A NOVEL. BY AMELIA B. EDWABDS, Author of "Barbara's History," "'Bebenbarn's Vow," &o. [Continued. ' Dear child, you can do in your own home what it would be unbecoming you should do in any other. I could not possibly allow you to wait upon yourself at Dr. Kreutzmann's; I have, therefore, engaged an attendant for you—a good soul named Christine, whose mother was Prau Kreutzmann's foster sister, and whom I am snre you will like.' It was now so dusk that he did not see how her color came and went during this apparently simple speech. Neither was he conscious of having said anything calculated to produce that effect. That he should think for her and act for her seemed to him the merest matter of course; but to her this protecting forethought was wholly new and unexpected. Even the tone of good-humored authority in which he spoke touched her with a wondering delight. It was so good to feel that there was still some one to take care of her.

' Yon are not displeased ?' he said, finding that she made no reply. ' Have I taken too much upon myself ?' ' How should Ibe displeased ? How can I be anything but grateful ?' ' Hush!' he said, quickly. ' That word la out of place, Winifred, between you and me. It pains me.' •But you think of everything I* • That is not wonderful. It only shows that I have a little common sense and a moderate amount of experience. lam of course anxious that you thould be comfortably lodged, and properly cared for.' He paused a moment; then added, hesitatingly— 'As anxious as If you were my own sister.'

Did the words ohill her or had it turned oolder ? The dying dusk, at all events, wis suddenly extinguished; the sky_ became black overhead; and it began to rain. 'Here comes another storm!' he said, 'We must run for it, or we shall be wet through before we reach shelter.' They quickened their steps; but they had scarcely reached the house when it poured in torrents. In the porch he put out his hand to Bay good-bye ; but she would not hear of his going till the storm was over. So they went in ; and Bridget served them with coffee in the oak parlor. ' I see you now for the first time,' he said, when the old woman hod lit the oendles, and left the room. ' Heavens ! how ill you loak!*

She looked 111, indeed; her eyes unnaturally laige and ringed ronnd with dark circles j her face and lips bloodlesaly pale ; and in the expression, not of her face only, but of her very hands, there was a worn, spiritless look that struck him with dismay. 'But I am not ill—at least. I think not,' she replied. ' I am only tired; and — lonely.' Still he looked at her ; and the more he looked, the more he was troubled. 'Yes, you are right,' he said 'The sooner you get away the better. Of course, it is lonely—horribly lonely, I suppose I have not realised it till now. Poor child ! ' ' Nay,' she said, forcing a smile, ' The Grange has been besieged by visitors all the week. But I am very ungrateful. I should have been thankful if they had stayed away, or only sent cards.' ' How soon can you be ready ? ' ' For the journey T' • Yes ; for the journey ' ' Immediately—at two hours' notice.' ' But have you no purchases to make ? nothing to do in the way of preparation ? '

I think not. At all events, if I want anything I will buy & over there.' * But for travelling 1 ? Remember, it is winter. You will want Airs, rags, travelling wraps.' " She shook her head.

'lt doesn't matter,'she said, indifferently. ' I have a cloak, and Bridget will find me :;ot„o «hawls. Besides, I should hate to go into Singleton, where Z have never been without— her ' The loot word name with a toh. 'lt i« vray foolish,' she said, brushing aw tear away. I shall be better by and by ? but—hut it is my first great sorrow, yont know.

' No, Winifred—not the first V The eJood rushed in a torrent to her faoe, so white the moment before. ' No, no,' she said, confusedly. «I don't moan that, of course—not altogether, at least.' Bat no one was the same to me an Aunt Hester not even uncle Stephen. Ao for".Cuthbert—that was not like a sudden blow—not as if we had known, for certain!'

'lt was worse than certainty,' he said, gloomily. 'lt was wore, in one way. And yet one conld not mourn as one would have mourned, had it been certain. I mean it was a ; different kind of »orrow. You will not misunderstand me; Lancelot! You know how much I owed to his goodness—how I honored him.'' ' Ay, but it was honor—not love!'

'Lancelot!' ,- . Their eyes met; fire in his—alarm in. hers.

'Forgive me!' he stammered. *I ought not to have said it."

Then finding that she was silent, he added hurriedly, almost defiantly—- ' But what does it matter ? I have always known it. The words have been on my lips a hundred times before, and now at last they have escaped me—that w all! And, dear, why need you mind? "Why look so distressed ? You would have loved him, if you could. I know you tried to school your heart, but it was no use. 7he fanlt was not yours. How could you help it ? What women ever loved a man merely because he desired to be loved, or because it was her duty to love him ? Love comes unsought—unbidden—unsuspected.' He took her hand—the hand that felt bo oold and looked so tired. She drew it quickly away. ' I was not worthy of him,' she said, tremulously. ' You cannot reproach msmore than I reproaoh myself.' ' Heavens and earth ! Winifred, I am not reproaching you. Ido not even reproach, myself ; though God knows there have been, times when

' Hush V. the said, interrupting him. 'What is past is past. Let us only remember that you are his brother, and that lam going away. I think the storm is over.'

This was said with dignity, a decision, that silenced and almost abashed him.

'Yon are right,'he said confusedly. 'I beg your pardon.' Then, after a pause full of embarrassment to both, he said—- ' I am going now; but before I go, can you give me an idea as to when you will wish to start V

. * Can Igo on Tuesday ?' ' Certainly—when you please.' ' But what must Ido ? Where must Iso first?'

' You must'go first to London, and thence by way of Paris or Brussels. Bat leave all that to me. In the meanwhile, what about Christine, your maid P Would yon like to have her over here at once, or shall she meet you at the station P' ' What do you mean P She is not In England ?'

'She is by this time at Old Court, having tea, I dare say, witb Church and his wife. I knew you would require her oa the journey.' Agaiu her cheek was warmed by a momentary flush—a flush of surprise, or pleasure, or gratitude, or perhaps of all three. But she only said very qutetly : ' Thank you ; I think I would rather be met by her at the station.' ' Yery good. The express goes at fortyfive minutes past nine, and reaches London in time for the mail train to Dover. Will it fatigue you t~o much to go as far as Dover the first day ?' * Not at all. I should like, if possible, to go still farther.' 'As far as Calais ? Well, yon will see when the time cornea. And is it to be oa Tuesday next ?' •Yes.' ' Then I will meet you, with Christine, at Singleton Station, at twenty minutes be* fore ten. Till then, good bye.* She put out her hand, the longed to sty something more than * good bye ; ' bnt what, she hardly knew. To thank him seemed all at once to have become strangely difficult. So she tald only : 'Good bye.' Chapter XXXIY. FROM OLD TO NEW. ' What a wonderful place !' They had been travelling all night and all the previous day; and now It was eight o'clock In the morning, and they were standing in the market-place at Brussels. It had been a weary journey ; confusing, and troubled, and full of changes. First the parting; Bridget lamenting that she should never live to see her young lady back again, and Joan in floods of tears. Then, at the turn of the road, the last blurred glimpse of the old home. Then the cold wet drive in the old hooded chaise—the draughty station —Lancelot waiting to hand her out —Christine, tall rosy oheeked damsel in a round blaok bonnet and dark grey cloak—the coming train— the sloppy platform, and a last sign of Beuben blubbering in the background. Then gliding trees and hedgerows, and line* of telegraph-wires that seemed to rise and fall perpetually; and floods of rain coursing down the window-panes ; and a leaden f-ky overhead ; and Lancelot sitting opposite, grave and silent; and a strange feeling that all the old familiar faces and fancies were every moment being left farther and farther behind. Thus many hours passed, and the early December afternoon closed in : and by and by there was a glitter of innumerable lamps, a running to and fro, a bewildering crowd, a huge crowd, a huge station : and then Winifred found herself in a cab driving through miles of lighted streets. This was London. Then another station—another railway carriage—an interval of forgetfulness—a sudden waking up —a ringing of bells—a rush of oold night air—a sloping gangway, with a sound of surging water below—a wet deck—a couple of hours on a sofa in a dim cabin, with Christine sleeping on the floor close by—then noise and movement overhead—Lancelot's voice at the cabin door—the night air, and the rain, and the gangway all over again—soldiers, porters, custom house officials—a chatter or French voices— terra, firma— Calais. Here (Winifred deolaring she was not tired, and begging to be allowed to travel all night) they warmed themselves at a good fire, bad food and coffee in the buffet, and were off again by the midnight express. Then oame the night journey to Brussels ; Wloifred and Christine in a compartment to themselves where, warmlywrapped in ruge and shawls, they slept profoundly all the rest of the night. When tbey woke, the day was just dawning. The lamp overhead was extinguished, and the window had become a square of pale grey light beyond which lay ghostly flats and lines of spectral poplars fading into mist. Then, as the light waxed stronger, the scattered outskirts of a large city oame into view; and presently the train ran into another big station, and they were at Brussels.

Here they were to take a day's rest and go to a hotel. Driving through the streets in which the shopkeepers had not yet begun to take down their shutttrs, they came to the marketplace, then ht its busiest hour, and alighted, the batter to enjoy this bright and bußy ecene—one of the- most picturesque that Europe has to show. l'ho mists had now dispersed, and the sun was breaking through rent and rolling masies of fast-vanishing cloud, Straight Utfore them stood the Hotel de Villa, its innumerable windows all a gUtter ; its noble tower (looked wilh light and shadow; It» weathercock saint—now bronze in shade, now geld in shine—flashing and shifting with tho wind. She Broodhuis opposite was in deep," shadow, as befitted the scene of a gre t tragedy ; while all around, crowded together;as if they had rot half room enough, stood tho quaint Gui'd and Corporate* Houses of old days, with their gable fronta, and jutting balconies, and faded splendour of soroll-work and gilding. (7'« be continued on Saturday.)